


rat

by London_The_Loser



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insomnia, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Pining, Platonic Relationship, Trauma, he doesn't actually manipulate anyone in this fic, is a bitch, just implies though, just kinda sits in a tree and thinks about how fucking sad he is, kinda vent, sadness idk, shitty metaphors for life n stuff, that should be a popular tag, wise words from technoblade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/London_The_Loser/pseuds/London_The_Loser
Summary: humanity never got him very far.ordream angst brain rot. this isn't me making excuses for his shitty behavior, sapnap and george are entitled to move on if they want to, i just wanted to make dream ~traumatized and sad~ with way too many metaphors
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Dave | Technoblade, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 110





	rat

**Author's Note:**

> its 1am and i'm sad, what abt it?

it was a quiet night, and dream was never fond of sleeping while everyone else did the same. he woke up sick with wasted opportunities, bones brittle and breakable in a way he didn't want to be. it was ignorant to think of himself as any different than human, any different than the anger and fear that cast shadows on desperate faces and sent tremors through their sword hands. but being human meant the same monotonous push and pull between starvation and revolt, and he'd rather watch kingdoms fall near his feet than unlock the heavy iron door set deep in his chest. 

sleep was never meant to be a special kind of poison, he's sure it's supposed to be the antidote. dream was never really what he was supposed to be, but that's fine. acceptance wasn't something he craved.

(maybe at some point- young and naïve in a way he would never be again- he still placed people on pedestals and fell on his knees for their guidance, their acceptance and affection. 

at some point he had still guarded the love that throbbed painfully in his veins, grasping whatever chance at humanity he could savor. now he spends hours scrubbing it off his body. 

humanity never got him very far). 

dream had perched himself on a particularly sturdy branch of an oak tree, near the outskirts of l'manburg. he's almost sure he could feel the faint trace of that addictive rush, adrenaline surging as the ground rattled under his boots and he bear witness to a nation twice fallen. chaos is all he'll ever be, power is all he'll ever reach for, control is all he'll ever need. attachments never got him far, not like cold manipulation did. not like cruelty did. and if being the bad guy made _pride_ surge forward, hot and blistering in his throat, then a few shattered hearts and bloody bodies on the pavement would do nothing to deter him. 

(he can never tell whether he's prideful or guilty. 

he can never tell whether he hates himself or loves himself.

either way its, an obsession.)

the key to his soul had long since been swallowed, the mask that sat heavy on his face a constant reminder of what he was. what he always would be, and what he had long since accepted. whatever _thing_ trapped inside his sturdy ribcage was nothing but a fool, and dream would be damned before he let his grasp on power loosen because a rat had chewed through his wires. nights spent drinking beers by a fresh water stream, head resting against a steady shoulder and breath calm and even, those were the night dream hated most. he hated pretending to laugh, pretending to smile, pretending like sentiment buzzed inside his head like it did the two men by his side.

(he hated that sometimes it was real, and 'pretending' was a cover for the sticky sweet niceness of it all.

he hadn't had friends since he had dragged his broken body through dense forest and grassy plains, lost and lonely and desperate for freedom

he hadn't had friends since he realized he would always be too broken to keep them close). 

if his mind crumbled slowly, he would just be another villain thrown to eternal fire. if his body wasted away, no man or woman would mourn the loss of a tyrant shadow, lurking behind every decision made. it was freeing, in a sad, specific way. to be the only person who truly cares about yourself. if he could not have victory, there was no real reason to continue living. plans had been made in desperate attempts to distract his raging mind as he sat cold in empty forests, fantasies of looming towers and sturdy walls, friendly neighbors and domestic cottages on the edge of the woods. anywhere safe. anywhere warm. turns out the only warmth he ever felt was the rush that came after triumph. 

(he closed his eyes and tried not to imagine the playful grin of an arsonist and the warm smile of an archer). 

life was a game of chess, except when dream closed his eyes he knew the chess pieces were all his. no opponent, no great enemy, no honorable battle or virtuous celebration of unwavering strength, because he was strong in a way other's scorned. the board was his and human's hated being played with, clawing at free will with a passion that could never quite be extinguished. the pieces were his to decide, each innocent soul who had wandered close enough to dream's domain falling victim to his careful assessment the moment they stepped foot in obsessively claimed land. a pawn, a night, a queen, a rook, their humanity reduced to finicky toys in the mind of someone incapable of accepting defeat. 

(he couldn't accept defeat, not now, not after so much had been done. forgiveness was not written into his violent story, there would be no redemption arch for a man who played enthusiastically with the lives of so many. 

there was no point in paying mind to the weakness in his mind that _ached_ to be held, yearned for a connection, cried out for a chance to be real again. 

dream had crushed the hope of being anything other than a mask as soon as he slipped it over his scarred, damaged face). 

tonight was a good night, he was sure. alone was where he was meant to be, because lonely air was cheap, but it wasn't so thick that it filled his lungs with hot caramel, foreign and strange to a man that had long since given up on finding connections. alone felt like aching bones and burning skin, too-tight finger nails and a hallow ache right between his collar bones. familiar, calming, simple. much more simple than unending laughter and whatever tickle of amusement that wasn't meant to arise afterwards, or thin fingers tightening their hold protectively on his shoulder in way that made him feel far too tangible. 

it was nice outside, temperature somewhere between brisk and cool, a gentle breeze shaking the leaves above his head. the city in front of him, built above a gaping crater that made something like pride well up inside dream, was silent. from what he could tell, most of the residents were sleeping soundly in their bed's while some found themselves taking refuge in a random spot around the surrounding area. 

(dream tried not to think about tommy, cold and lonely and hungry and abandoned, curled up inside an empty tent with a fire dwindling to his back. 

he's damaged men in far greater ways than tommy, pushed far more unstable innocent people to their demise, but somewhere the rat inside his ribcage made a pitiful attempt at communication. 

_you're no different then the men who ruined whatever you had left of your life, and you'll never be anything more, dream._ )

"dream." a baritone voice broke the silence, splitting the atmosphere in two. the man in question didn't flinch, although his shoulders stiffened minutely and he flexed his fingers in preparation. he didn't know why technoblade was here, be he knew he wouldn't exactly be fond of him. dream did contribute to his little brother getting exiled and his older brother going mad, after all. it was only expected. 

shifting his weight casually, dream turned to lean his back against the rough surface of the trunk, swinging his legs easily to prop them on the same branch he was sitting on. "to what do i owe the pleasure, technoblade?"

"you're a bit of a dick, y'know that?" was all the man said, monotone as ever. dream never really envied him for it, though. he had his own ways of hiding his emotions, be it clever acting or manipulation.

dream hummed thoughtfully, night going quiet once more for just a few moments. "i'm well aware." he decided on. 

"are you okay with that?"

_no,_ the rat said, _no i'm not._

"of course i am."

"why?"

"why not?"  
  


techno snorted, silence falling once again. longer this time, more pensive. he wonders why the piglin had really decided to visit, wonders if he's about to be murdered. dream isn't even sure how much he'd care. sure, bitter at all the wasted effort to get to where he was, but he wouldn't mind much. he only ever chased victory as a reason to live, it was the only thing he could care about without drowning in it. 

(his bones ached with the desire to drown in whatever peace flooded his frenzied mind when he drank tea with george. 

his skin burned with the need to feel the warmth of sapnap's arm around his shoulder again. 

he didn't want to think about the memories of standing high on a pedestal, the winner but not alone. never alone, never with them.)

"you can stop doin' this, you know?"

dream thinks he knows what techno means, and it's almost amusing. dream's tired in a way he's always been, but stopping wasn't an option anymore. 

"maybe i don't want to" he says instead. 

"we both know that's not true."

dream let his eyes slip shut, the breeze still calming, the temperature still somewhere between brisk and cool, the night still pleasant. he wonders what it would feel like to sleep, on a night light this. he hums in acknowledgement, wondering what he was supposed to say (since when did dream ever care about what he was supposed to do?) 

"i can't be anything else." he decides on, simple and straight-forward. dream doesn't deserve redemption, and he had already accepted it. he made his choice, chose a path, committed to it. _victory or death,_ he thought bitterly, much less noble in the mouth of a conman. 

"i don't like liars." 

"i'm not lying."

techno sighed, "playin' god is one of the most human things i can think of, dream. we don't have to climb above our past, we just gotta move on. don't make yourself the host of a parasite, it's about as stupid as you could get." and then he's wandering back into the forest, probably to crawl into whatever hole he's labored over incessantly for the past week. 

it was a nice night. maybe he'd try and sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you loVED IT, please comment what you thought or what your favorite lines were if you feel like it, i like hearing shit from y'all


End file.
